


Phil&Clint

by my_unlikely_hero



Series: Avengers Drabbles [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7111999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_unlikely_hero/pseuds/my_unlikely_hero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Clint one shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phil&Clint

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick dabble onto another ship. Whatcha think?

Phil Coulson is the goddamn king of walls, Clint thinks. He's high up in a tree in the middle of nowhere with a twig poking him in the ass, and Coulson is reprimanding him for ‘chatter on the coms’. 

“Shut up, Hawkeye.” His voice is deceptively soft. Any other agent would do as they were told but Clint enjoyed trying to provoke the controlled man into tiny expressions of emotion. Usually aggravated and hard. Not   
that Clint knew that last part. 

“Man, fuck this. Why the hell am I even up here? This sucks. It's fuckin’ raining, sir.” He gets to reply. 

“Cmon, Boss. I have this stick poking me in the ass. I'd rather have something else poking at my ass.” 

Coulson remains quiet. Maybe if he doesn't react, Clint will get bored and do his job. 

“Can't I just shoot this guy already? I've been up here for hours. He's fucking sleeping. What, are we waiting for his morning round of ‘spank the monkey’ first?”

On the coms, his handler remains silent. 

“That's it, isn't it? The whole quiet front is just to hide your dark kinky side. You're probably into voyeurism and handcuffs. A little whipping?” Clint pauses for effect, “are you a top or a bottom? You know. Pitching or catching? Giving it or taking it? You catching my drift, sir?”

He still hasn't provoked a reaction. It's raining and Clint is in tight black tactical gear, soaked and dripping. It's kinda cold, but his grip is steady on his bow. He keeps it trained on the sleeping man. 

“It's fucking raining. I'm soaked. Can I just shoot the guy?” Still silence. Clint pauses to check his hearing aids and his com- both are functioning. “Are you ignoring me?” 

Coulson can hear the hurt in his voice. He knew Clint was low-key insecure about being ignored. 

“Eye on the target, Barton. Your window is coming up.” 

Clint goes back to pouting and staring at the target. After a few minutes the mans cell phone rings. Clint can see the screen light up with a name. The target turns on the light beside the bed and Clint can read his lips. The man hangs up and turns back to the bed. 

“Now, Barton. Take it.” Barton takes the shot and bolts to the rendezvous a mile down the road. Coulson meets him in the jeep and drives them to the beach side hut down the road. Mission accomplished. Another asshole kingpin down. 

Clint drops his go bag down on the bed- the only one, because this was a seasonal vacation spot for couples- and rummages for his purple sleep shorts. 

Clint strips of his dripping clothes. Coulson turns away so he isn't caught staring at his assets perky ass. Clint doesn't wear boxers under his sleep shorts. He slips several sheathed knives into the pocket and flops onto his bed. 

Adrenaline thrums through the young mans veins. He huffs, and springs back to his feet. He hops on his toes a couple of times and paves the small room. 

Phil sits on the bed with a book and a reading light. Clint rummages through his bag, and pulls out a bottle. He belly flops beside his handler. The bed shakes. He props up onto his elbows, his muscles shifting under tawny skin, back bowing. He took a long drink from the bottle. 

It looked like moonshine to Phil, a dark pink with large pieces of strawberry or maybe cherry, and knowing Clint it probably was. He had grown up in the circus, after all. 

“Want some?” Clint offers the jar. 

“You shouldn't be drinking on missions.” 

Clint snorts. “I could shoot straight hammered. Have before,” he adds, drinking again. “Besides, it'll take a lot more than a few swallows of this to make me useless.”

“You're restless.” Coulson points out the obvious. 

“Really? What tipped you off?” He rolls on to his back, careful not to slosh the drink. It presses him against Phils side. The man was in plaid pajama pants and a captain America tee shirt. He barely glances away from his book. It has a lame cover on the front and Clint wonders if it's a romance novel. 

Phil isn't even really reading anymore. It's more of a prop to keep him distraction from the man beside him. He's pressed against him, naked save for the small purple shorts. His body was lean but muscled, blonde haired and blue eyed. 

Clints wet from the rain and sweat. The air is muggy and warm and smells like strawberries and alcohol. He wishes he could take a drink of that, but someone had to keep their head clear in case things went sideways. It's hard to ignore Clint when the man kept fidgeting. 

“Clint if you don't calm down I'm going to taze you,” he says, deadpan. 

“I can't!” He splays his limbs like an exclamation. His bare leg flops on top of Phils thighs and his flailing arm sends his book flying. 

“Barton!” He barks. He's usually not this tense, but Clint had been making innuendos all night, painting a picture that left Phil wanting. It was sexual frustration, he supposed. He had blue balls, thanks to the mouthy blonde sprawled half on top of him. 

“Yes honey?” 

“You are not a toddler.”

Clint is drinking from the bottle again. He pauses to rub at his shorts. “No I am not,” he says, smirking. His eyes are hooded and dark. The only light is the lantern Phil had for reading. 

Clint moves first, of course. He had always been impatient. Phil often wondered about ADHD in adults. Now, though, his lips were pressed against Phils, pliant and chapped and sticky with strawberry. His chest was flush with Phils own. The shirt was too many layers between them. 

Clint licks across Phils lips, begging him to kiss him deeper. Phil licked into his mouth, tasting like strawberries and sharp alcohol. Phil pulls back. 

“You're drunk.”

“Only a little,” the blonde grins at him. He leans across Phil to put the drink on the table. It left him fully pressed against the older man below him. He could feel the mans arousal pressed against his belly. He leans forward to kiss him again but a hand on his chest stops him. 

“This is a bad idea.”

“This is a great idea! We're in the middle of nowhere. You're the only handler that doesn't think I'm a moron. And I've been wanting to do this for a long time. In case you didn't catch on to the hints I've been dropping you all day.” His brow quirks up. “You can be so slow, Sir.” 

“I think you can call me Phil,” he teases. 

“Naw, I like calling you sir.” Clint purrs. Phil smashes their lips together, a clash of teeth and tongue. He rolls them, pinning Clint to the bed. 

Phil mouths at the sensitive skin of his throat, scraping his teeth but careful not to mark. Clint leans back like an offering. He wants to mark him; to leave bites and bruises for everyone to see that Clint is his. Phil compromises and marks his chest, biting at his pecks, where nobody would see. Clints breath catches. 

“Don't hold back on my account, sir,” he says, urging Phil on. The ‘sir’ sends a pulse down his belly, making his cock swell. 

Clint basks in the feeling of Phil around him; his hands are caressing his side, his thigh. He tugs at his ridiculous Captain America shirt, wanting to get closer. Phil only pulls away to strip down to his boxers. 

Clint kisses Phil back down into the mattress, moving down and springing his lovers cock free. He wasn't quite hard, and Clint swallowed him down without much teasing. Phil groans below him. His twitches on Clints tongue. Clint bobbed, relishing the feeling of the man growing hard. He pulls off with a pop. 

Coulson pulls him up for another kiss, sloppy and desperate and so unlike him. One of his hands wanders down to free Clint of his purple boxers. They're thrown to the ground. He's hard, running on adrenaline and alcohol and Phil fucking Coulson. He squeezes Clints bare ass. 

“Fuck me, sir.” He grins, rolling onto his stomach and wiggling his ass teasingly. 

Phil pulls away just long enough to find the lotion in his pack. He swirls around Clints twitching hole before pressing in. The lotion isn't ideal, but Phil stretches the younger man slowly, adding more fingers and curling to tease his prostate. Clints gasping, arching back to meet him. 

“I'm ready. Sir, Phil, please.” He begs. Phil coats himself with lotion before pressing in slowly.

“Harder,” Clint growls, Phil only halfway in. Taking it too slow, apparently. He snaps his hips forward, balls pressing against Clints ass. The sniper groans. He's hot and tight around Phil. 

He pulls almost all the way out, and pushes forward again, aiming for the bundle of nerves that send Clint arching off the bed. The blonde urges him on. 

“C’mon, sir. You drill your trainees harder than this,” he gasps. 

Phil tangles his hands in Clints hair, pulling his head back. “Mouthy,” he growls. 

He's not sure if it's a reprimand or a compliment, but he smacks Clints ass a few times. Then he fucks Clint until the blonde screams. He arches back, pushing into Phils cock, crying out as he cums on the sheet below. Coulson follows after. 

They pull apart and collapse onto the soiled sheets. 

 

 

Phil wakes Clint early. There's no real way to make coffee, so they redress wordlessly. Phil is silent as he drives them to meet pickup back to the US. The whole ride back is tense and silent, despite Clints attempts at humor. Eventually he gives up. He takes out his hearing aides and naps until the carrier lands. 

Phil doesn't avoid him, as much as he just doesn't talk to him. The most Clint gets for three weeks is a text to type up the mission report for submission. Clint even called, curious over the sudden space. Coulson hadn't answered, letting it ring to voice mail. 

Phil was avoiding Clint. He knew better than to compromise his asset like that, but Phil had let himself be weak. It was a mistake. There were dozens of reasons why handlers didn't sleep with their assets, and the awkward tension was the least of them. 

It had been a mistake, the brief lapse in judgment when he had slept with Hawkeye. He had hoped space would resolve the issue, but he couldn't keep his mind from wandering back to the man. Another reason they should have relations- it was a distraction. And in the field, distractions were deadly. They got you killed. 

Clint feels… he doesn't want to say used. Or insecure. That's not right, but he liked Phil, okay? Like, like-like. He had sort of hoped Phil wouldn't be like every other jackass Clint had fucked- they tended to use him and toss him away after.

But it didn't look that way. So Barton does what Barton knows; he holed up in his shitty apartment, eating pizza with Lucky. Looking around the apartment, he can't help but think that maybe that's why nobody sticks around. 

The room around him is a disaster.   
Newspapers and pizza boxes and other trash littered the floor around him. The coffee pot was within arms reach, where Clint could drink it out of the carafe. Guns and knives and arrows litter the apartment so he has to watch where he steps. His bow is the only thing in its spit in the corner. His dog was lying on top of his chest, the only cuddle companion to be had. 

It seemed like a metaphor for his life- he's a fucking mess, sleeping with the dogs. And, ok, usually the place is a bit cleaner, but Clints pouting. He thinks he's allowed to pout after Coulson fucked him and then left. 

Clint shakes his head. It was one night, nothing to get emotional over. Sure, he had the biggest fucking crush on the guy, and he had thought that this had been a turning point towards something real, like his first actual relationship. But Clint had thought wrong, and that was fine. It was. Fuck Coulson for not wanting him, but whatever. Clint was done pouting. 

He stacks the pizza boxes, leaving the leftovers on the floor for Lucky. The mutt wolfs them down happily, tail swishing enthusiastically. Clint takes the trash out to the dumpster, and picks his arrows up off the floor. He hangs them in his quiver by his bow. The guns go into a pile on the couch for him to clean and oil. He does the dishes and makes a new pot of coffee. 

He cleans and oils his weapons and by the time he's done he's tired enough to crash for a few hours. 

It's his phone that wakes him up several hours later. He doesn't look who it is. “What?”

“You're being called in. Fury has an assignment for you.” It's the asshole Clint is trying to get over. 

“Fuck, Coulson. Alright.” He hangs up and forces his self to rise. He takes his first shower in days, and puts the coffee on the table so Lucky wouldn't drink it. He packs his bag with clothes and weapons and leaves. 

He doesn't worry about leaving the dog. Lucky is smart and knows his way in and out from the window. He’ll come in if he needs to, and he'll come back when Clint gets home. The most loyal thing that's ever been in Clints life. 

 

The air is hot and humid and leaves him gasping as he runs. Blood seeps through his fingers clutching his stomach but he can't stop running because Phil says the randevouze is only a half-mile away now and there are pissed off men with guns chasing after him.

Clint wants to go home. It's been two weeks since his disappearance, and Clint needs food, a shower, and a coma. In that order. The docs at medical can look him over after he's unconscious. He knows that the bullet in his gut is the worst of his injuries; broken bones can be reset, burns and whip marks can be treated and patched, as long as he doesn't bleed out in this god damned jungle. 

It's his own fault for getting spotted, of course. Not that he had meant to, but still. These things always seemed to happen to him. He was going to have some really gnarly scars if he makes it. 

He's trying not to stumble, and only years of practice have kept him from collapsing. His vision is blurry, but finally he reaches the clearing. The men are right behind him, and Clint sees Phil raise his weapon. Hawkeye drops. He doesn't get back up. He can hear Phil yelling, but that's not right- Coulson doesn't yell. Everything fades away. 

 

He wakes up in a hospital. He's done it enough times that he should be used to it but an injury will mean mandatory time off, physical therapy, medications. A whole lot of bullshit Clint does not want to deal with. 

Coulson is sleeping in a chair beside his bed. His suit is wrinkles, and he's snoring. It's the messiest Phil has looked in- ever, actually. 

“Coulson,” Clint croaks. His throat is dry. “Phil.” This time the man stirs. He hands Clint the purple hearing aids from the side table. 

“Clint?”

“Present, sir.” Coulson calls a nurse over. They sit in tense silence as Clints vitals are checked. The nurse leaves a cup of ice chips and a spoon, but Clints fingers are bandaged. Thank god his fingers would heal. 

“So I guess the cavalry came,” he giggles. Phil thinks they must have him on the good drugs. 

“A little later than I would have liked, but yes.” He slowly feeds Clint bites of ice until the young man looks away. 

“Thought you'd leave me. With them.” Clints eyes are drooping. He's tired and drugged. He should shut up but words just kept coming out. “You were mad at me for sleeping with you. You ignored me. I thought you were going to leave me there.”

“No, Clint.” Phil sighs. “I'd never leave you. I'm sorry I made you feel that way.”

“You didn't want me,” Clint pouts. He's not looking at the other man. Instead he glares at the floor. The scowl pulls at the little band aids on his face. 

“I do. I want you, Clint. I want you sleeping beside me at 2am, and drinking coffee with me in the mornings. I want to take you to the movies and out to dinner, and that's the problem. I don't usually get what I want.”

“Well I do, and I want you on this bed, cuddling me. I demand apology cuddles.”

And cuddle they did. Until Fury found them tangled together on the small bed, and called them morons, but smiled anyway and left them in peace.


End file.
